This is where people come to experience
the past: they capture the light in smart boxes
to take home and prove to themselves
they were here, doubting how they loiter now
under absurd gargoyles in the sunshine
while news is gathered and dispersed
under a red and white umbrella.
Awnings, gelati, may be part of it,
as much as the whisper of automatic doors
at the Jeff Koons Hotel
and the shaking air in Drummer Street.
Look up, they say on the tour bus, see
where King Harry sports
a chair leg for a sceptre, where a woman
is ironing her blouse.